Says the Soldier Not Afraid to Die
by VintageEli
Summary: The Courier insists that Boone take one last trip to Bitter Springs, which goes horribly awry. With Boone in a coma and the Legion breathing down her neck, The Courier is left to make a terrible decision. FCourier/Boone.
1. Chapter 1

_Coyote Tail Ridge, 4:17am._

It was a little after four in the morning when Frances was lightly shaken to wakefulness. Making light grumbling noises she checked her Pip-Boy.

"What the h-?" she began, alarmed at the time.

Putting his hand up to silence her, Boone quickly brought her up to speed. "Something's wrong. Got a group coming our way. Looks like a Legion raiding party. It's big." He stopped, his brow knitting in thought. "Might be too big. Even for us." He turned to look behind him, using Frances's binoculars to watch the oncoming Legionaries split off into three groups. "If you want out I won't blame you, but I'm going to stay. See if I can hold them off."

A little more than half awake now, she asked, "Why would they come to Bitter Springs?" In her mind it didn't make sense. It was just a tiny refugee camp in the middle of nowhere; it was so far out that it was nearly starved for supplies. What could possibly be here that was of worth? Or maybe… they had been following her… "Hey, aren't those _my_ binoculars?" She frowned, hating that he had dug through her bag when she slept.

Boone supplied an answer that should have been obvious. "Easy target for grabbing slaves. Bunch of refugees, just a few soldiers defending it." As if reading her mind, he added, "I don't think they're here for us." His eyes went to the ground, and a hard smile formed on his lips. "Too bad. Would've made me feel good about myself," he mumbled, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Awkwardly, Frances put her hand on his shoulder. Even after traveling with him all this time, she was still a little unsure around him. "Well, what are we waiting for?" she said encouragingly, pulling her 10mm out its holster. By now Rex had also woken up and was standing at her hip, watching both of them eagerly.

Boone looked up, somewhat surprised, and nodded. Without another word, he jumped off the edge of the ridge, rifle in hand.

"Wait! Boone!" Frances quietly called out. "You can't just run in by yourself!" He either didn't hear her or wasn't listening as he kept running until he reached the top of a small hill. A second later the first shot was fired, and the (second) Battle of Bitter Springs had begun.

* * *

Frances and Rex had run through a cemetery to the command center to warn the NCR troops. By now Boone had finished off the first group and was running up the hill to the camp the tear away at the second wave. Captain Gilles was trying vainly to herd the refugees up to the troops' tents, firing at oncoming Legionaries as she did so. Mongrels were ripping into anything that moved, clearing the way for the Legion who began mowing down anything in army green. It wasn't long before Frances lost sight of Boone entirely. In the back of her mind, she was beginning to seriously regret bringing him back here.

Nearly deafened by the cacophony of gunfire and screaming, she gave Rex orders to attack. Raising her pistol, she cautiously made her way into the camp. A mongrel quickly spotted her and came bounding in her direction, but it was easily put down with one shot. As its body fell to the ground, she ducked beside the metal siding of a makeshift hut. Bullets went whizzing past, but she didn't dare to check if they had hit their marks. A Legionary ran by her, and she fired three times before he went down. Two fleeing refugees followed, and she signaled to them to run to her. Just as they were turning her way, a spray of bullets from the other side of the shed threw them to the ground. She almost screamed, covering her mouth at the last moment. Before, she had only seen the aftermath of war. Actually living it was proving to be an entirely different animal.

Swinging around the shed, she fired wildly at the Legionary responsible. One bullet managed to scrape his face which only served to piss him off. He came stomping towards her, replacing his machine gun with his machete. With shaking hands she tried to reload before he got too close. When he was just a few feet from her a bullet pierced the back of his skull to come blasting out of his forehead. Blood sprayed over her chest and face as his body fell beside her.

"What the fuck are you doing? Wake up!" Boone bellowed at her.

Wiping away the blood on her glasses, she scrambled to her feet. _I've been through worse than this. Get it together, Frankie._ Although this may not have been her worst experience, it was definitely working its way up there. Killing the Legion had been a simple matter when she hadn't had to defend innocents as well. She slammed a clip into her pistol and, after taking a steady breath, began clearing the Legion out of the camp.

* * *

Boone shook his head, clearing it of all thoughts of _her_, regaining his calm composure. Without any hesitation he fired a shot through the neck of a Veteran Legionary. Everything that he had kept inside since his first battle at Bitter Springs was currently fueling his fury, and with every dead Legionary, Boone gained a little more inner peace. In another time, he would have been ashamed of himself for taking such pleasure in killing. But years of enduring every horror the Mojave had to offer had turned him into a methodical killing machine. Whenever he saw a Legion soldier, he was instantly reminded of Carla cowering in a cage in Cottonwood Cove, five months pregnant and completely without hope.

Their ranks were beginning to thin out. One of them tried to get the jump on him, but he smoothly dodged the oncoming machete, letting it embed itself in the ground. Pulling out his combat knife, he cut off the hand gripping the heavy weapon. The Legionary fell back howling in pain, and Boone put a bullet between his eyes to permanently shut him up. Footsteps behind him caused him to do a full 180 degree turn. It was a recruit; probably his first time on the battlefield by the way he was half heartedly holding his machete. Boone raised his combat knife in an offensive position. Spying his mutilated comrade, the recruit fell to his knees, gripping his machete with white knuckles. As far as Boone could tell, he was the last raider.

Smirking, he lifted the machete to his throat. "You won't kill me, you NCR bastard." His words were strangled, unsure, and before he could think twice about it, he swung the blade into his own exposed flesh. Boone made no move to stop him, and watched with morbid interest as he bled out at his feet.

"Boone! Above you!"

Alarmed, he looked up just in time to see a Legionary fire two bullets into his shoulder and chest. His battered leather armor did nothing to protect him, and he hit the ground with an audible _thud_. There was more gunfire, but it sounded as though it were miles away. Frances was instantly beside him, worriedly repeating his name like a mantra. He felt pressure on his chest as her hands clamped over the raw wound, and he suddenly had the urge to cough. When he did, a red spray dotted her glasses. He wanted to apologize, but he could only make gurgling sounds. He had known it would all end here, but he didn't expect it to happen this way. To die in the company of someone who cared about him was more than he deserved.

She ripped her glasses off, and then he felt her hand on his face. He suddenly wished that he had taken the time to shave recently. It was a little thing that wouldn't matter in a few seconds. A pained smile spread across his face, and he would have laughed if he wasn't choking on his own blood. Her thumb was rubbing against his scruffy cheek, her eyes wide and shiny with tears. His own eyes were becoming harder and harder to focus, and there was a darkness at the edge of his vision. For a long time, he had wanted her to touch him like this, but under much different circumstances. Why had he kept himself so closed off to her?

_Just like always, you're too damn late…_

No longer able to keep his eyes open, he drifted off into a deep, untroubled sleep.

* * *

Panic instantly overtook her as his eyes closed.

"Goddammit, Boone! Keep your damn eyes open!" The hand that had been stroking his cheek pulled away to smack him hard. "Wake the fuck up!" she hoarsely screamed, the sound tearing at her throat. She raised her hand to hit him again, but someone caught it before she could.

"Hey, we got a wounded one over here!" an NCR trooper yelled. His baritone voice was hard to miss, even among the sounds of anguished moaning and shrill crying that had overtaken the camp.

Frances turned her head to look at him, her tear-filled eyes making him blurry. He was a massive man, all muscle and hard lines. Despite this, the grip on her arm was not painful, and he released it when she had regained some of her senses. Gently, he moved her out of the way, and scooped Boone's limp body into his arms like the sniper weighed nothing. Boone's hand dangled haphazardly, and Frances grabbed it, holding it in her own as they walked quickly up to the medical tent.

"This isn't the first time he's been shot," she blurted to the stranger. "He'll be all right. God knows he's been through worse." She squeezed Boone's hand a little harder than she intended, her knuckles going white. "He'll be all right…"

"He's First Recon. Every one of them I've known has been a tough bastard," the trooper told her, smiling calmly while holding a dying man. They reached the opening of the tent, and the trooper said something about how she should stay outside because the tent was going to get very crowded very soon. She barely heard him, too focused on Boone's slipping beret, which she caught before it hit the ground. His hand slipped from hers, and the trooper disappeared inside the tent. Frances stood there for a long moment, gripping the beret for dear life, not breathing. Then someone rushed by her, and the Mojave started moving again.

* * *

A/N: This is a re-post of a somewhat older story, in case you noticed. I changed the title and altered/added to the first chapter, and the story will follow a new plot. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

For the first time in a long time, Boone didn't dream about dead bodies, gunshots, or Cottonwood Cove. Instead, he was taken back to a memory that he had always held dear, but hadn't thought about in a long time.

_The Strip, Gomorrah, 10:36pm._

"Come on, Boone. What the hell was the point of coming with us if all you're going to do is sit at the bar?" complained Manny Vargas, punching his long time friend in the shoulder. "Vodka on the rocks," he said to the bartender.

"I was dragged here against my will. Gomorrah's a little too seedy for me," Boone grumbled moodily. He picked up his beer and took a large gulp, downing the remaining half in the bottle.

Manny sat down at the stool beside Boone, hooking his arm over his depressed comrade's shoulders and saying quietly, "Bitter Springs was three months ago. Drinking your leave away isn't—"

"Just stop right there, Manny. Just…let me drink, okay?" When the bartender placed Manny's drink on the counter, Boone asked for a glass of Scotch.

"Look, man. It's not like you lost family there. _I did_, and I'm dealing with it," Manny said in an angry yet hushed whisper. "It wasn't anybody's fault. So suck it up and let it go." Boone threw him a look that could kill, his fists clenching so hard his nails bit into the skin of his palms.

"You don't know shit, Manny. You fucking coward," Boone growled, his eyes shooting daggers. "When the shit hit the fan, you were nowhere to be found. What happened? Couldn't look your kinsmen in the face as they were being gunned down?"

Manny glared at Boone, and bit his lip. For a second, he looked at the ground, and then he pulled his fist back to land a solid punch in Boone's nose. Falling out of his stool, Boone put a hand over his face, more shocked than angry now.

"Fuck you," Manny hissed, spitting on the ground in front of him. "Baby killer." Just as Boone righted himself, Manny walked away from the bar and out of the theater.

Still boiling with rage, Boone sat back down at the bar. He could feel the blood pouring out his nose, but his pumping adrenaline was keeping the pain back. The bartender, used to these situations, handed him a towel to clean up his face. Taking it from the woman's hand, he grumbled about the whereabouts of his scotch. As he wiped away the last bit of blood, he pressed the towel to his nostrils to stem the flow.

The sound of a door being thrown open drew his attention to the end of the bar. A woman dressed in the trademark black leather of all Gomorrah "entertainers" took a seat just a few stools down from him. There was something about her that instantly got his attention. Not her scantily clad body, although it wasn't plain by any means. Maybe it was her blue eyes that still seemed to glow despite their cold demeanor. Maybe it was her long hair which was a stunning golden copper color. With a shaken tone, she asked the bartender for a drink. When Boone looked closer, he noticed that her face was flushed. It took her a minute to notice him, and when she did, her expression went from embarrassed to something like concerned.

More than used to the aftermath of bar fights, she coolly asked, "What happened to you?"

Boone slowly moved the towel away from his face, cautious of more blood. When nothing came rushing out, he explained, "Just the result of an argument between a friend and myself. Nothing to worry about."

"Who said I was worried?" Realizing how rude that sounded, she added, "You should get that looked at."

"What about you?" he asked, drawing attention away from himself.

"What about me?" she shot back, pretending not to know what he was referring to.

"You seemed upset. Sorry I asked." A little red dot fell on the bar in front of him, and he held the towel back under his nose.

She turned her attention to her drink, playing with the tiny straw in her glass. "Don't be. I'm sorry I snapped. It's just not something I want to talk about right now." Her blue eyes filled up with tears, which she quickly swept away.

Boone noticed, but didn't say anything. Finishing his scotch, he stood up to move beside her, and asked, "This might be a long shot, but what would say about getting out of here and going somewhere else?"

She looked up at him, the surprise obvious on her face. "With you?"

He ignored her comment. "How about dinner at the Tops?" He couldn't believe he was being this bold. Manny usually had to throw him at women to get him to even talk to them.

"With how we look? They'd be more inclined to think we're an act," she said, her tone lightening up.

He looked down at his blood stained shirt, and she softly laughed. Then, for the first time since the incident at Bitter Springs, he smiled. Not taut and forced, which had been all he could manage, but genuine and natural.

"Yeah. I need to get back to base and get this taken care of," he said, gesturing at his face. "But what about tomorrow night?"

Her joy was replaced with bewilderment. "Why are you doing this? You just met me. You don't even know my name."

"_My _name is Craig Boone," he told her, still smiling. He held out his hand to her.

She paused for a moment, eyeing his callused palm before sliding her own soft hand onto it. "They gave me some crazy name when I started here, but you can call me Carla."

_Bitter Springs, 10:30am_

Six hours after the Legion attack, Frances was finishing wrapping a bandage around the leg of small boy. A mongrel had grabbed him, but he had managed to beat it to death with a baseball bat. His eyes were glazed over, his mind obviously elsewhere. Looking at him, Frances couldn't help but feel for the kid. Sure, she had brought Lt. Markland the books he needed for dealing with these kinds of mental trauma, but reading and therapy can only go so far.

When she finished, a little girl came up and sat beside the boy. Shyly, she took his hand in hers', and the fog in his eyes began to fade. Deciding to let them have their privacy, Frances made her way back up the hill. On her way, she passed a couple of NCR troopers throwing the bodies of dead Legionaries onto a massive pyre. Trying her best to ignore the pungent odor of burning flesh and hair, she made her way up the steps. At the top was the medical tent, and she swiftly ducked inside.

Lt. Markland was busy tending to a wounded refugee when she came in. Looking around, all of the available beds were filled, with many standing around either awaiting treatment or visiting a friend. She instantly noticed that Boone was no longer under the Auto-Doc, and began to panic.

"Lieutenant, where's Boone!" she demanded, already fearing the worst.

Lt. Markland put a hand on her shoulder, urging her to calm down. "He's fine. We moved him to another tent to free up some space in here." He watched as she took a shaky breath, and noticing her exhaustion added, "There's a bed in there for you as well if you want to get some rest."

"No, I need to stay out here and help clean up," she stated, turning to leave the tent. Blocking her exit was a very large trooper, the one who had carried Boone up the hill after the battle. Standing beside him was Rex, who had helped in tracking down both fleeing Legionaries and refugees who had abandoned the camp with the fighting began.

"Go get some sleep. No sense in you running yourself ragged," he said, his deep baritone voice having a strangely soothing effect on her frazzled nerves. Rex moved up in front of Frances and whimpered, and she reached down to affectionately scratch under his jaw. She allowed the man to guide her to Boone's tent, and waited until he had left before pushing the canvas flap aside to enter.

Boone was laid out on a small bed, what was left of his clothes folded up on the ground beside him. His chest and shoulder were bandaged, his arm held close to his abdomen by a makeshift sling. Taking a seat on the bed beside his she watched his regular but shallow breathing. His face was completely relaxed, much different compared to the constant scowling he was known for. The beret and sunglasses were missing, but a quick look around found them to be lying underneath his clothes. When he woke up he would've never forgiven her if she had lost his beret.

_You mean "if" he wakes up, _she thought to herself.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Frances was the one who was stupid enough to run around shooting anything hostile. She was the one who let her guard down in dangerous areas. Not Boone, who was usually the one who saved her sorry ass.

"_Let me aim that for you next time," _he would say as she groaned and complained about her injuries. _"If you could just kill it with the first shot, you wouldn't get hurt. I'll never know how you've managed to survive in the Mojave for so long."_ She would glare at him, but then smile and smartly tell him that her survival was what he was in charge of.

Boone stirred slightly, pulling her out of her reverie. He looked pale and weak which served only to further disturb her. She felt like crying, but she only put her head in her hands, rubbing her temples. Rex sat down beside her, putting his head on her lap, and whimpered again. Lightly stroking his fur, she thought about all that the three of them had been through. They had always survived everything that was thrown at them, but now it seemed even Rex was questioning if they would get away this time.


End file.
